The End of the Hunger Games
by RedFluffyBanana
Summary: The Olympian Gods have decided the Capitol's Reign of Terror must come to an end. Who should get the honour of initiating this feat? A certain, somewhat unwilling,Lieutenant of Artemis. Let the Hunt Begin, and may the odds be ever in her favour. re-write
1. Prologue: Thalia

Hi!

You may be confused as to why I have deleted the origional version of this story and posted this one.

Well the ever-amazing Shrrgnien convinced me that Thalia would be a better protagonist than Artemis for this story. Not just for the awesome opportunities this entails, but also because I forgot one very important detail in Percy Jackson lore... that the Gods can't interfere.

(oops)

So, here is the Prologue for the re-written The End of the Hunger Games with Thalia in the driver's seat. And I cannot thank my awesome Beta (and co-writer for the next 3 chapters) Shrrgnien enough for her epic brilliance that is her beta-ing skills and patience for my writing.

And to you, the reader:

I hope you enjoy it :)

The End of the Hunger Games 

Prologue 

We had long ago decided that the barbarism of the Capitol must come to an end. The mortal girl, Katniss Everdeen_,_ was only the beginning of the rebellion. The catalyst. The kindling, which when exposed to a flame, ignites and spreads. We are the flame. The destructive force. We are the watchers and we had decided that the reign of terror reaped upon the land by the Capitol must be halted.

Oh, dear sweet Hades. I've been hanging around Apollo _way _too long.

So…yeah. The Olympians have finally decided that enough is enough. Artemis has been saying that since the beginning, of course, but the others have always insisted that they _couldn't interfere._ It took over seventy-five years to get them to change their minds.

Well…not really. I'm here, aren't I?

I played along with the rituals that were required; the interviews, the appearances and the training. I not only earned an 11 during the private audience with the Gamemakers (Athena argued a 12 would be too suspicious); I had hordes of sponsors practically tripping over themselves to support me. Of course, I don't really need their support. I'm a demigod. A Hunter. A trained, experienced killer with centuries of experience on my side, and I'm going up against frightened children. And I have gods on my side! I can't possibly be hurt.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself. I say it over, and over again, hoping against hope that I'll start to believe it.

Yes. Me. Yours truly. Thalia. Lieutenant of Artemis…Daughter of Zeus…District 7 female tribute in the 76th Hunger Games.

Ares' words of encouragement are echoing in my ears, "You'll have fun…After all, you kill on a daily basis. Consider it a hunting session." True enough, but his words, when paired with his piercing, fiery stare and his menacing laugh, reeked with cruel intent.

I guess that was why I was chosen. Hunting. Killing. Death. It was all natural to me. Fun.

...

We were to show the Capitol that it was not they that dictated over Panem, but us. We could end their petty rule at any moment and in any way we wished.

We had long debated the intricacies of our scheme, and it was—naturally—Apollo's suggestion that Thalia should be a member of District 7 because "they specialize in wood and you're the goddess of the forests." Genius…his intellect truly astounds me sometimes.

Now, at least, he is silent. Irritating as he is, he knows…sometimes…when to shut up. He squeezes my shoulder gently, and for once, he doesn't make a joke.

As well he shouldn't. This is not even remotely funny. Yes, of course Thalia will be fine; she can hardly help that, being strong brave, powerful…I stop myself before I lose my composure completely. She would have difficulty losing this competition if she tried. It was why she was chosen. But she is _mortal._ Un-aging, eternally healthy, yes, but mortal nonetheless. And I have just knowingly and willingly sent her into a death trap.

The least I can do is say goodbye.

…

I am roughly thirty seconds away from murdering my stylist.

She's _asleep,_ if you'll believe it, in a chair in the corner of the room, and Johanna wasn't kidding; she truly is the biggest idiot in the Capitol. If—_when_—I survive, Apollo is never, ever going to let me hear the end of this. I will forever be Thalia, the girl who was a tree.

I swear if I didn't have to be strong now, for all our sakes, I would drop my head into my hands and weep at the pointlessness of it all. After murdering my stylist, who is the biggest idiot in the Capitol.

"Truly? And all these years I thought it was my brother."

I think, under the circumstances, I can be forgiven for the bloodcurdling shriek.

…

I can't help laughing slightly at her reaction. "Peace, Thalia. I only came to see you off."

"Don't…_do_ that!" she gasps. I cock an eyebrow, and she grimaces. "Sorry. I mean…please. Not out of the blue like that."

I take a moment to read the undertones of her thoughts. "Frightened, Thalia?" I ask softly.

"No, not at all, my lady," she reassures me. "Just startled is all. Really."

I am not convinced.

I place a hand gently on her shoulder, pause for a few seconds, and then remove it. I know that this is the only comfort she will accept at the moment. It is one of things I have discovered she has in common with Zoë.

Attempting to sound brisk and businesslike (a rather thin mask, but I doubt any but my brother would be able to tell) I ask her, "You remember your instructions, I am sure?"

Thalia stands a bit straighter and recites, "No cursing in Greek, no demigod powers. Get my hands on a bow, grab a sword or a hunting knife, and find some trees. Remember I'm on camera. No sacrificing to the gods." She gives an apologetic grimace, and I laugh outright.

"I am sure I shall survive."

She nods and continues. "I can twist the Mist, but I can't use it on other tributes or the Gamemakers will get suspicious. I can call down a random lightning strike once, so I'm supposed to use it sparingly."

I raise an eyebrow. "And?"

She frowns. "And…nothing. That's everything, isn't it?"

I nod, smirking. "Glad to see you were paying attention when I told you that _you could short-circuit electrical devices in an emergency_."

She blushes. "Right. And if I'm cornered and there's absolutely no way out other than to use my powers as a half-blood, I can blow out the cameras and go Greek on them. And then when I get back you'll be so disappointed in me that I'll have to sit through a poetry recital with your brother, and remember to be more careful next time."

I smile. "Precisely."

Suddenly she looks slightly nervous. "Lady Artemis? You…you were kidding about that last part, weren't you?"

Suddenly a bell rings, signaling her to prepare for launch. "Good luck, Thalia," I say. "And-"

"Don't!" she cries suddenly.

Genuinely confused, I ask, "I beg your pardon?"

Her brilliant blue eyes pained, she stands on her pedestal and looks back at me. "I'm sorry," she says miserably, "But if one more person says, "May the odds be ever in your favor," I am going to blow up _something."_

My eyes tighten. "That wasn't what I was going to say."

"…Oh." A glass tube begins to slide up around her, and I wave my hand, stalling it. "What…were you going to say?"

I take her hand and look her in the eyes. "Thalia," I say quietly, "Be _careful."_

…

As Artemis moves back, the glass slides up around me, and I nod. _I will be,_ I think, and she smiles before disappearing in a swirl of moonlight. I have time to thank her silently for not reverting to her immortal form—I couldn't have torn my eyes away from that last friendly face if I'd tried—before I'm out of the launch room, wincing slightly in the sunlight.

I don't know whether it's my mind or my lady's that thinks the words.

_Let the Hunt begin._


	2. Chapter 1: Surprises

Here is Chapter One...thanks again to Shrrgnien for her awesome work.

:)

Disclaimer for all future chapters: I do not own, nor ever will own either the Hunger Games or the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series. Sadly.

And finally ...Enjoy!

Chapter One- Surprises 

Tribute—even the term denotes a sacrifice. Everyone here is fighting for their district, their freedom, their lives. Each tribute must expose themselves to the Capitol's scrutiny and, in the end, even the winners must obey the audience's whims and desires. Every one of them has been reduced to an animalistic fury, and now, staring at the blood-spattered faces and gore which has already been reaped, I realize one thing.

They have already sacrificed themselves.

The winners of these games are treated as royalty, lavished with glory and honor. Their names are called by thousands, remembered in history. They deserve no such honor. I've seen enough wars, enough soul-shattering sacrifices, to know this by now. The dead are the ones to be commemorated. I glance around at the fallen. The heroes.

One tribute, whose hair has been matted with her own blood, is laying face down, limbs twisted and broken by her side. An ugly gash is opened on her side, and her blood is pooling, staining the dirt around her. Her eyes are lifeless and glazed over. I imagine her family, who were forced to watch her death, knowing they could do nothing to stop it.

But I can.

A colossal Career with bulging biceps looms over the body of a young boy. His permanent scowl is now decorated with crimson smears—the blood of his victims. The boy's chest heaves, and he struggles desperately to try to free himself from under the Career's meaty foot, but he is utterly powerless to stop the final blow, which is delivered to his face. Another death. Another family in mourning.

The display is sickening.

The Career's head snaps up, his eyes frantic with bloodlust. Crazed. It's a look with the deranged intensity I've seen sometimes in rabid animals. Alarmingly, this gaze focuses on me, and a small smile tugs at his scarred lips. He has been training for this his entire life, trained into a killing machine. Lethal. The boy didn't stand a chance.

My own gaze is settled at a point just above the Career's left shoulder. Even as he lumbers towards me, muscles rippling and fists clenching and unclenching, my focus is entirely devoted to that one spot.

After all these years, the glint of a silver bow and quiver is unmistakable. The bow is of similar design to my own (which I have been forbidden to summon, as that would be something of a giveaway) and in that moment I am certain that it is meant for me. Whether it was placed there by god or Gamemaker, I neither know nor care. My eyes flicker to the behemoth, who is still consumed with fantasies of my death. He is dangerously near now, almost within arm's reach, but he is of no concern to me…Or he wouldn't be, if I could summon my bow. Or a lightning bolt. Or something along those lines. Unfortunately, as I am just remembering, I can't.

I very nearly break the no-cursing-in-ancient-Greek rule.

"If you turn around now, I won't hurt you." I speak in a calm, even tone. It's a tone any Hunter would recognize; the tone Artemis uses moments before eradicating a boy from existence. I hope she appreciates the irony.

He laughs, evidently finding my statement hilarious. "Oh, and what exactly can you do to me?" He rolls up a sleeve of his jacket, which all the tributes are clothed in. I don't know whether it's intended as a joke or a comfort object, but somehow some god had managed to get my trademark leather jacket into the tribute outfit. Exposed on his arm is a large, irregular scar, which has devastated the tissue around it. It's a display, designed to frighten his victims. It doesn't work.

"This."

I had my firm orders; no powers, no abilities, no Greek battle cries. Nothing a normal mortal wouldn't be able to do. The Capitol was filming my every move, and to ensure that my immortal family had their fun, I could not reveal my origins. It was essential.

I smile for a split second. It's really a cruel exhibition—letting him know I _will_ win this, and there is nothing he can do to stop me. His sneer falters as I catapult myself off the ground and use his broad, muscled shoulders as an impromptu springboard to vault myself over his head.

As I fly airborne, the drum of his heartbeat, steady and strong, reverberates in my ears.

One beat.

I dive towards the ground, and perform a neat, calculated handspring. My opponent turns around, eyes wide with first confusion, then realization.

Two beats.

I land on the balls of my feet, and reach for the bow. It all but sings when I touch it; definitely an immortal weapon. The first satisfying flickers of terror dance across the career's face.

Three beats.

He knows it's too late…he can't stop what is about to happen. Not at this range. I set the arrow in place and pull back on the bowstring, reveling in the balance of the weapon. I will not miss.

Four beats…his last.

I let my grip slacken. The arrow soars, cutting through the air. It penetrates the Career's skull, directly between his eyes. My smile returns as another cannon blast echoes through the air, and my prey drops to the ground.

Six dead.

I can almost feel the camera's intense glare as I casually step over the Career's body. No doubt the audience is in a frenzy over our little confrontation; at least their appetite for sacrifices has been sated for the time being. I glance to the east, only slightly concerned by the utter silence which has descended upon the Cornucopia. I am alone. Alone, surrounded by the bodies of the mostly (I recall the Career I have just killed, and flinch in disgust) innocent. Pacing around the area, giving a wide berth to the deceased, which I'm sure will soon be collected by the infernal hovercraft, I gather items which would be essential for my hunting session. These include a camouflaged backpack, twin hunting knives, and a throwing knife with a deadly serrated edge, which I tuck under my belt.

I pause mid-stride, aware of a stray thought which had been gnawing at the edge of my contemplations, demanding attention.

Ultimately, are we—the gods, and those who serve them—no different from the Gamemakers or the Capitol themselves? I stop dead, overcome by a feeling of affliction and sorrow.

No, I refuse to believe that. We had a right…didn't we? And these Gamekeepers…the Capitol…they were monsters.

The whispers of a thousand ghosts from my past speak in unity, but I can't tell what they're saying.

I shake my head, and tighten my grip on the weapon in my hand. Now is not the time to get lost in the catacombs of my troubled history.

"_The catacombs of my troubled history_"? And here I swore to myself that I would never start talking like Zoë…

In the end, I decide to abandon pondering my very existence and focus on more important matters. Like hunting my prey. I decide to head towards the pine forest, just for the sake of the comfort. I have a thing for pines, after all.

Har, har, har. I feel sure that I know who's behind the choice of tree, and Apollo will be in trouble when I get back. And yet I still can't help but smile. The sun god knows how to cheer people up, that's for sure.

And armed with a bow- I know I'm invincible.

…

I wander the worn paths in the forest floor, watching the plentiful mockingjays (a creature the Muses have a special preference for) spiral and spin in the air, whistling their cheerful tunes with abandon. My pace lacks urgency, for I have the advantage that I can wait. I will tire much more slowly in the forest, and I am safer here than anywhere else. Of course, the fighting hasn't started in earnest yet, and seventy-five years of Hunger Games show that those who start out cocky end up dead. I decide that the priority is to find food and water. In a real wood, this would be easy, but everything here is artificial, and I start to worry that it may have a negative effect on the strength I gain from the forest. It doesn't hinder my well-honed instincts, thank the gods, and I manage to find a small clearing, inhabited by some plump rabbits, dining without a care in the world. For a moment, suspicion flares; this is too easy. They could easily be mutts, and the last thing I need is to be killed by _bunnies._ How humiliating would that be? I can almost hear Grover's voice now: _See? I told you rabbits were big bullies!_

That's enough for me. I'm killing these damn rabbits. Minutes later, three of the thoroughly non-mutated creatures are attached to my belt via a string that was included with the backpack.

As the artificial sun starts to hide behind the mountains to the north (Seriously? The sun is setting to the North? What in Hades is wrong with these people?) I seek out a possible place to sleep. Everything in me rebels against this; I'm stronger at night, my instincts are sharper, my reactions faster under the moonlight. Still, perhaps I'm being overly paranoid, but I'm sure that the Gamekeepers would find it odd if I continued on through the night, seemingly unaffected by the lack of light or rest.

After a few miles, an unexpected noise breaks into my semi-mindless roving: the muffled yet distinctive sounds of a girl crying.

I change my route accordingly, following the cries like a trail of bread crumbs, until I stumble across a small clearing peppered with bluebells and a collection of pale yellow flowers which bathe in the last remaining light of the day. The scene is deceivingly peaceful, and considering the nature of the Games, I am immediately suspicious.

I approach the quavering creature, bow raised and expecting an attack at any moment. The young girl, who can't be older than 14, is curled into a tight ball, hands clenched over her ears, head buried in her knees. Soft sobs are escaping her mouth as her diminutive frame trembles in terror. In typical half-blood fashion, my ADHD brain notices that the white cotton shirt under the black jacket is slightly untucked, looking almost like a duck's tail.

I lower my bow. I simply can't kill this girl. Not like this, not in cold blood. It's a line I'm not willing to cross.

_You'll have to kill her eventually anyway, Thalia,_ I try to tell myself. _Do it now; at least it'll be clean and quick, better than if you leave her and the Careers catch up to her. _

I know that. But I can't bring myself to release the arrow.

"What's your name?" I ask, the tenderness in my voice surprising me. It's a tone I've never heard in myself before.

She raises her head, revealing dark, caring eyes awash with tears. She stutters and clears her throat.

"P-Primrose Everdeen."


	3. Chapter 2: Shock

Hi again :)

My continuing thanks to Shrrrgnien for her amazing beta-ing/ editing/Thaliafying.

:D

Chapter Two: Shock 

_Primrose Everdeen?_

I step back – shock freezing my limbs, locking them in place. This had not been part of the plan. I knew about her; who didn't? Katniss Everdeen's little sister, the one she had volunteered to save. I remember painfully clearly the look on Lady Artemis' face that day; the reapings are always hard for her.

My hand clenches on the bow. Her identity should be irrelevant; I can't care. I know perfectly well that I can't show mercy, can't show weakness…that any alliance I make, I will soon have to break. Surely it's better, kinder, to kill her now, instead of gaining her trust and betraying her later?

I raise my bow again, draw the shaft of an arrow to my ear, then lower it again, fighting myself. She's only a child…and the look in her eyes…

"You're Thalia, from District Seven. You got an eleven in training. Just like my sister." She says the last part in a barely audible whisper, and my heart tightens.

"Yes…..I did."

There is a moment of silence, and a few tears slide down Primrose's face.

"Are you going to kill me?" Her voice trembles, breaking through her fragile mask of courage. She edges back, grasping a tree trunk for support and defense. Fear is etched into her face…. It is the face of a girl who senses her own death is imminent and knows she can do nothing to stop it.

My hand drops to my side, the bow now hanging loosely by the taut bowstring. I sigh. "No. I'm not."

A sharp intake of breath betrays her surprise at my response. She jerks her head in an imitation of a nod, but the hours spent still have made her body stiff and resistant. Her soft blonde tresses fall in front of her face as she pulls herself shakily to her feet.

She wipes her eyes with shaking hands, before extending one in my direction. An offer of alliance.

"Please, call me Prim…" Her voice is timid, and clearly still suffering from the effects of terror. I hesitantly take the outstretched hand in my own, watching as the first signs of hope appear in her eyes.

"Prim." I try to give a reassuring smile, despite the guilt stirring in my stomach, knowing that I will someday very soon have to murder this girl. She seems encouraged anyway, bobbing her head enthusiastically, and she drops her arm to her side.

A second of silence passes between us, before Prim leans forward—balancing on her toes, her arms ever so slightly extended. Her eyes focus on my own, and she cocks her head. "You're...you're…"

I frown. "Prim?"

She leans in closer still, frowning slightly as she squints in an effort to see in the fading sunlight. "It's just…your skin…just…for a second, it almost looked like you were _glowing_…"

"Trick of the light," I say hastily. "I...I almost thought yours looked silvery for a second, too." I do my best to avoid her gaze, instead listening intently to the sound of the wild. It's a skill I've learned from my goddess over the centuries; relaxing, simply letting the subtle melody of the forest wash over me, cocoon me in its warmth, its comforting presence-

"It's kinda pretty." Her voice shatters the delicate symphony that had maintained its oh-so-fragile balance in this alien environment; a world so different from the vast forests I call my home. This one was artificial…engineered. It felt so _wrong_.

My head snaps back to the young girl as I quirk an eyebrow. "Thank you."

I receive a smile in return; the first genuine one since our encounter. I let a small grin break through my pretence, leaving it there just long enough not to raise any undue alarm with my new hunting partner.

I exhale slowly, noting how the harsh breath brushed against my lips as it escaped.

"We better set up camp."  
-

I examine our chosen base, glancing over the rudimentary barricades, which Prim had insisted on building. At best, they might deter some of the creatures which undoubtedly call this fake forest their home, but against other tributes or mutts they won't do much of anything. Ideally, I would have gone further up the valley, but Prim was clearly exhausted from both the mental and physical trials she had experienced.

I glance over at the little girl, observing as she ties the leather jacket around her waist, clutching at the material with trembling fists as she fights against the icy breeze, which has blown up without warning. Not even my father is this interfering when it comes to weather. Biting back a derogatory comment about the Gamemakers' subtlety—or lack thereof-I return to my work, unaffected by the wind. There are benefits to being the daughter of the god who controls weather.

My hand strokes the leather handle of the knife in my belt, and I realize that my new ally remains unarmed. "Can you use a knife, Prim?"

She nods her head mutely, and I hand her the knife; she takes it in her petite hands, clutching it like a lifeline.

Her gaze flicks to my hands, which are working rhythmically to coax a flame out of the wood. "Isn't that dangerous? What about the others..?"

I watch her out of the corner of my eye as she glances around frantically, smiling slightly as I continue, until the smoke thickens and the first sparks dance into the twilight sky.

"I'll be waiting for them."

"Right…." she says softly, edging closer to the flame, which now bathes our camp in its warm glow. A few moments of silence fill the air, which is occasionally disturbed by the welcome _crack_ of the firewood. After a time, Prim speaks again.

"What's it like in District 7?"

I lean my head against the trunk of the tree I'm propped against-my eyes scan the night sky. "Well…there are lots of trees."

"Please…tell me more."

I concede; after all she has lost her home, her district- that land of grey. And now of red and black, the ground stained with the blood of the dead, painted in the ash of their bodies. But I've never actually been to District 7; if I start to describe it in detail, someone is bound to get suspicious. I glance up at the moon; no doubt a projection, but if Artemis is watching—I pray she is—she will recognize the plea for help.

I all but cry with relief as a familiar voice fills my mind. Softly, copying Artemis' tone exactly, I act as her mouthpiece.

"It's an ocean of emerald, of jade—more beautiful than the glisten of the most precious of jewels. In the spring, when the first petals emerge from their winter slumber, the land becomes a mass of purple and gold. During the summer, the valleys and hills all but sing…and the scent of…the scent…"

I pause, as Artemis' voice has faded, leaving nothing but an overwhelming feeling of…loss? Why? Then I remember hearing those words—those exact words—once before, and I realize what caused her to break.

I'm describing her home on Delos.

Prim, who had been gazing up at me in awe, catches my hesitation. "You miss your home, don't you?"

"Yes," I answer truthfully. Even if it wasn't the one I was describing.


End file.
